by Rie Warren
I pulled the Missing flyer from my back pocket, unfolded it, and placed it beside her. “Is this you?”
Grace crumpled the paper into a ball inside her fist. “Who the hell are you?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“Who?”
Again, I examined her room. I took in every detail without appearing to as I chewed over her question, her responses, her appearance.
The door locked from the inside so it looked like she wasn’t being kept here against her will.
No drug paraphernalia to be seen.
No bruises or even fading marks or scars on her body that I could tell, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
Yet, Grace was clear eyed.
The room spacious, clean, even luxurious.
I cast my gaze back to her. “My friend is Mercy Cooper. I think she’s yours too.”
Lips pruning, she gathered the top of her robe closed and pinched her legs together. “Mercy who?”
I wanted to believe Grace was in a better place. That she’d scrubbed her past clean away.
But I didn’t buy it.
“Mercy. The White Lair. The drugs. The forced sex. The neo-Nazis. Ring a bell?”
She stood on shaky legs. “Get the hell out now, and don’t you come back.”
“So I guess you don’t want to know Mercy’s alive?”
Her eyes widened quickly before she dissolved the surprise into a bland expression.
“She’s alive and healthy and happy. You could be too.”
“I’ve got everything I need. I want you to leave now.” Her voice only trembled at the end.
I rose slowly, careful not to brush against her. “I’m definitely coming back, Grace.”
A glacial expression frosted over her features. “All grace is gone. Don’t call me that again. Don’t ask for me again.”
She is hardened.
Heading for the door, I checked the hallway. All clear.
I stepped out.
Grace slammed the door in my face.
Alive? Check.
Spirited? Copy.
Motherfucking cock-hardening gorgeous? Should not be thinking about that . . . but roger that.
Despite everything I’d observed, I trusted my sixth sense that something wasn’t right. Nothing added up.
Maybe Grace had some sick kind of Stockholm syndrome or something. She was the girl in the picture. She was Mercy’s friend. What the fuck had happened to her between June and October?
I stomped down the stairs, floor after floor.
I needed to talk to Angel.
I couldn’t tell anyone.
Grace is beyond my help.
Hitting the doors to the porch, I had a bad taste in my mouth.
Mistress Bunny shouted after me, “Buh-byeeee. Come back soon, sweet thang.”
****
On my V-Rod, I sped back to Thunder Road.
And that damn song kept circling my head like water going down a drain. Or a tire spinning on asphalt.
Then I remembered.
And wished I hadn’t.
The Devil Dogs in my unit used to fuck around during downtime in the Sandbox, lip syncing and shaking their thangs like assholes just to pass the time. And every goddamn time I came back from delivering supplies—supplies I skimmed off my own meager surplus—to the pretty Pashtun widow in the mud daub hut in the nearest village, those shit-stirrers inevitably began the REO Speedwagon chorus about messing around.
I hadn’t messed around with the native woman.
Had never even touched her. Each encounter was harmless and completely chaste.
At nineteen, already a mom of two, she’d been set to marry her dead husband’s brother, as was custom. So she definitely wasn’t my Afghan sweetheart.
In the meantime, I’d given a helping hand when I could. Off book. Away from the prying eyes of others. And—what with her burqa—I’d only ever seen her beautiful earthy brown eyes and the tips of her cocoa-colored fingers when she accepted my offerings. Sometimes I imagined the head covering lifting almost imperceptibly at the corners of her mouth when she smiled.
Sometimes I’d wished I could just take her away from that impossible war-torn part of the world.
Sometimes I just wanted to see her whole face.
And sometimes, she let me kick around a half deflated soccer ball with her oldest son. I could listen to him laugh. I could hand him a chocolate bar. I could high five him.
I thought I could make a fucking difference.
My unit was mostly dead now. KIA. Bo Maverick and I the lone survivors of what should’ve been the most soul-shredding experience I’d ever endured. Out there. In Afghanistan.
Like Mercy, like Grace, I knew what it was like to be held prisoner.
The difference was, my captivity hadn’t taken place on home soil. I wasn’t sold into prostitution.
People had looked for me.
Prayed for me.
Brought me home.
Brought Bo and me home.
Fucking Bo. At least the thought of him now made me laugh. Hell, the big bad dude had married—wait for it—not his high school sweetheart but his PTSD head-shrinker. Not that I blamed him one bit. Doc Ronnie AKA Veronica with a PhD had turned my damn head. I’d even named my lucky KA-BAR after his ballsy lady.
They’d settled in Charleston, South Carolina where Blood Legion had links to the Retribution MC. Bo chose to be close to his roots whereas I’d always been a nomad.
And now I was caught in another woman’s web, but Grace didn’t want to know the first fucking thing about me.
That was just too damn bad, because I wasn’t about to lose another one.
Oorah.
Chapter Two
GRACE
AS SOON AS THAT man left my room, moving so silently I wouldn’t even have known he’d gone if I hadn’t been watching him, I dropped shakily onto the settee.
I’d been worried sick that night at the Lair. From the tiny kitchen in the back, I’d heard the commotion. I’d stayed out of sight as a bunch of men swarmed the barroom. I saw Ned give Mercy the hot shot. I’d seen her go down. Seconds later, the men hustled out, taking a lifeless Mercy with them. And I knew without doubt the big blond man had been her Angel, coming to the rescue.
Too late though.
All these months, she could’ve been dead for all I knew.
But I couldn’t say anything to the mysterious Killian Slade.
I couldn’t ask anything.
I couldn’t admit anything . . .
That night changed everything.
Badly beaten but no less a bully, Ned had come for me.
He gripped my arms so hard I wore his fingertips as bruises for days afterward.
“You know about this, you fuckin’ bitch?”
For one single moment, I wasn’t scared. Even if Mercy died, she’d be in a better place than this hovel, trapped in this enslavement.
“Yes,” I snapped. “I know all about Mercy and her boyfriend. And I hope to hell they come back and kill you all!”
His backhand blow had sent my head spinning, but even the painful strike couldn’t dim my satisfaction.
Ned had gone feral, dragging me through the bar with a hand clutching my hair. “I got a cure for you. Goddamn cooch of a slut.”
He yanked me along all the way to the door, and I’d been relieved. At least his threat hadn’t meant a gangbang of the worst kind. Not that there was ever a good kind.
His son Ricky—that bucktoothed skinhead—had whined, “Where you takin’ her, Pa?”
Ricky the rapist. He’d always had a particular liking for me, which made my flesh crawl. Every time he touched me, I wished I could crawl out of my flesh.
“Never you mind, boy. Get one of them gashes out back to come clean this mess up. When I gets back, we’re goin’ hunting for those pussy-ass bikers.”
Outside, Ned forced me into his truck.
He’d climbed behind the wheel, nursing his swollen ja
w.
Then he’d jabbed a finger at me. “And you keep that cock-hole of yours shut, or I’ll sew it closed for good.”
I hadn’t been outside of the Lair compound in months. And even though I’d felt sick to the pit of my stomach—my ears ringing from Ned’s cuff against my head—I’d watched through the window as the New Orleans scenery rolled past.
We’d stopped in an alley behind a big white house ablaze with lights, and Ned marched me out of the truck, his hand sealed over my mouth.
He’d rapped on the back gate, which opened almost immediately.
A man entered the alleyway, face hidden in shadows. “This is the one you promised to deliver?”
“One and onliest. Got her pret’ well trained. Knows how to keep her trap shut and her legs open.” Ned had chuckled caustically. “Highest earner, though we don’t charge near what you do for a piece of tail.”
“I’ll need a better look,” the other man said. “Put her in front of the truck. Turn on the fog lights.”
Ned had trotted me to the truck with the man following. A streetlamp overhead illuminated parts of the new man’s face, highlighting a narrow nose, the high planes of his cheeks, the ginger color of his hair.
“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he’d ordered in a voice as cold as ice.
Fear skittered through me. Fear outweighed by volcanic hatred that poured through my veins like hot lava.
When Ned had flicked the truck lights on, the beams blinded me.
The man circled me. He sized me up. He inspected me closely, like I was a prime side of beef at auction.
“Any marks on her?” He’d aimed the question at Ned, and I fumed while he talked about me as if I didn’t even exist.
Balling my fingers against my palms, my nails dug into skin.
“Some bruises I’d imagine. Nothin’ that ain’t gonna heal.”
“Did you brand her?”
“Done only did that once because my niece was bein’ a real uppity bitch,” Ned explained the most horrific thing I’d ever witnessed like branding a swastika on Mercy’s breast was akin to putting her in a timeout.
The man had slid closer while Ned jabbered on.
“Take your clothes off, Grace,” the ginger-haired man instructed.
My eyes widened when he said my name. My lips curled in distaste when I registered his demand.
Eyes shut against the two fiends watching me disrobe—Ned probably slobbering, the other clearly calculating my worth—I’d skimmed off my clothing down to my bra and panties.
“All of it.”
I’d hidden a glare beneath demurely lowered eyelashes and took off the rest—articles that were clean but dingy and had been through years of wear and washing.
Naked, I’d stood in the muggy late June night as the man surveyed his potential property.
He circled again, a shark closing in on the kill.
“Good wide hips. Excellent ass. Nice tits.”
In front of me, he’d cupped my breasts. “Are these real?”
My temper on the rise, I’d hissed, “Yes.”
“Yessir, ya mean. Ignorant gash.” Ned stomped closer, his slapping hand raised.
The ginger-haired man caught his wrist and torqued his arm behind his back.
Ned bleated, “What the fu—”
“If she’s going to belong to me, she calls me Roark. Your further input is not required.” His voice a deadly threat, he twisted Ned’s arm higher before letting him loose. “You’re a redneck meth-lab mutant who doesn’t understand the worth of female flesh.”
Sputtering, Ned had nursed his hurting arm. And his hillbilly pride.
The man took no further note of Ned and instead continued to poke, prod, and even pull back my lips to clinically check my teeth and gums.
I’d never been so humiliated in my life.
I’d also never seen anyone put Ned so far in his place he was completely silenced instead of spewing the usual threats.
Eventually Roark had picked up my discarded clothes. He dropped them in a trash bin and shut the lid.
He walked to the gated entry and advised, “Don’t touch her. Don’t even look at her. I’ll be back shortly.”
I could feel Ned bristling as he paced around me, but he followed orders. Other than muttering foul insults, he didn’t even speak to me. Which was a blessing.
And for a few moments I hoped this whole thing was a giant sting operation. Where the White Lair got taken down by police or the FBI. That I was really to be freed.
But that stuff only happened in movies and fairytales, not to women like me.
Within minutes, Roark had reappeared. He came to me, throwing a silken robe over my shoulders and wrapping me inside the material to cover my nudity.
He turned to Ned, the entire alleyway awash in the light of his truck’s beams. “She’ll do.”
He’d handed Ned a heavy duffel, which the clan master hefted to the hood of his pickup. He unzipped the bag and flicked through bundles of money—more than I’d ever seen in my entire life.
Snorting in disgust, Ned jerked toward Roark. “Where’s the rest?”
“You brought her to me bruised and broken. I’m taking her rehabilitation off the top, you piece of trailer trash. Now get the fuck off my property before I just kill you and reinvest the money you’re lucky to have.”
As much as it nauseated me to be reduced to a cash transaction, I enjoyed seeing Ned brought to heel.
And there I was—signed, sealed, delivered.
Handed over.
Paid for like my personal wants and needs meant nothing.
While Ned roared away, Roark ushered me through the gate, locked it, and guided me into the lower bowels of the brightly lit, big white house.
That had been four months ago.
I knew Roark had paid Ned top dollar for me. He reminded me often enough that my worth directly correlated to how much money I could bring in. He put me first through detox—he didn’t employ crack-whores or non-English speaking imports. The best of the best for his clients.
He’d set me to work as soon as he could, but not before he slaked his own needs on me first.
The thing about Roark? He wasn’t like Ned. Not the least little bit. He was a sly businessman. The bordello was just one of his many ventures, as far as I could tell.
He was scrupulous about the men who patronized the establishment.
Above all, he was ambitious.
Which made him even more dangerous.
It was only later that I realized he didn’t just want me for a high-priced and highly prized hooker. The price I paid was going to follow me for the rest of my life.
I hadn’t known what happened to the neo-Nazi assholes after that night. I hadn’t known what happened to Mercy or the other girls.
Finding out Mercy lived, Mercy might be happy . . .
My hand shook as I poured a glass of water from an ice-cold pitcher.
I couldn’t even bring the cup to my lips.
I’d wept for Mercy, for my own mercy.
I’d wept for myself.
Not as often anymore.
Taking a deep breath, I drank the water in halting sips. I’d have liked something much stronger, but that wasn’t an option.
Not anymore.
Anyway—I straightened my spine—tears were a weakness.
Hearing the news from this Killian Slade guy . . . well, I’d just have to box the information up, lock it down, close it away.
Take Mercy’s recovery, her new life, out like a secret when I needed hope. A little solace to my soul.
It was hard to forget her.
It was hard to forget the man who’d delivered good tidings about her.
I’d spent less than ten minutes with him—definitely not worth his money—yet he’d forged an impression. With his tall stature, raven black hair, and intense blue eyes, Killian was the most intimidating man I’d ever met. Not menacing and, believe me, I’d had unfortunate dealings with more than
my fair share of scumbags, assholes, Aryans, users . . .
Intimidating because of his sheer presence and muscular size and, above all, what seemed to be an ominous seriousness.
Still shaken from Killian’s bombshell revelations, I sat at my vanity. I applied Roark’s favorite red lipstick. I was nobody’s sweetheart, but I had to toe the line for now. I had to survive and stay healthy because there was no easy out for me.
Roark always came to check his investment Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights at eleven. So I’d been surprised Mistress Bunny had allowed a client to come up at all. Surely Killian hadn’t told Bunny his true intention for seeing me. He looked like the type of man who ate secrets for breakfast, the kind of man who didn’t willingly offer privileged information just because.
I’d just finished blotting my lips when the door behind me swung open. Roark stepped inside, his gaze locking on me immediately. Without a word, he motioned me to stand for his perusal.
As always, he inspected me as he had that very first night.
He could be quite suave when he wanted to be, and he could be downright ugly. He’d never raised a hand to me though.
His abuse was much more cunning and calculated.
As I stood under his scrutiny, I could see—in a distant way—how many women would find him handsome. Always finely dressed, he kept in shape. Roark reeked of wealth and, with his sharply cut auburn hair, his expensive cologne, and his polished mien, I imagined women threw themselves at him.
But I knew the truth about him, and he was as deadly as they came.
Roark nodded his approval of my overall appearance, then he ran the tip of one finger lightly over my freshly-painted lips.
At that point, he glanced at the half open window and sniffed at the air. “Were you smoking, Gracie? You know I don’t condone you doing anything to harm yourself or our baby.”
His concern for my welfare was touching.
Not.
After the unsettling night I’d already had, I lost my temper for a fraction of an instant.
“What do you think?” I snapped.
“I think you got some of your spunk back.” After caressing my face, he tugged the ends of my hair hard enough to make sure I felt him, not enough to cause real pain. “Does that have anything to do with your new client?”